


You're a rope and I'm drowning

by tokeneffort



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Graves is seriously suffering, Percival Graves & Theseus Scamander, This started off being something else, and kinda went weird, but their employees think they are, picquery and graves aren't together, they aren't exactly friends but they consider each other important, to MACUSA and personally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8622304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokeneffort/pseuds/tokeneffort
Summary: Percival Graves thinks he can pretend to be okay and eventually it will be true.His boss knows otherwise and can prove it, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I imagined that Picquery would take Graves' kidnapping quite personally; he's her employee and a high-ranking official who was impossibly close to her, work-wise, for months without her noticing. It would be seen as Grindelwald mocking them. And Graves probably wouldn't just bounce back. He'd have physical and mental injuries that take months to heal and how would you react, knowing your friends, family, coworkers couldn't see the difference between you and a psychopathic murderer? (Even if that's not strictly what happened).

His flat hasn’t changed, except that it _has_.

It’s no longer his, but he can’t articulate it in a way to make people understand and so now he’s back inside this place that has been infested and robbed of any homeliness it once had.

He knows a team of junior Aurors came through and cleaned everything, but that is an invasion of its own and the fact one of his subordinates was poking through his room, remaking his bed, folding his clothes, makes his stomach squirm.

Picquery had noticed his discomfort, but hadn’t understood it, assuming it wasn’t from the idea of _returning_ home but from spending eleven straight days in an interrogation room so she had herself escorted him to his building and deposited him into the elevator.

It would have made him annoyed even if it hadn’t brought him back to this nest of ill-feeling, he wasn’t a child. He did not require a babysitter or a bodyguard and he had snarled as much at her. It didn’t stop the panic settling in his stomach when the doors slid closed and he was left alone.

He had entered, hanging up his coat but keeping his wand in his pocket. His new refrigerator had been filled with various meals made by MACUSA employees and that again made him angry, for no discernible reason. It was nice of them. It was _kind_. It wasn’t intended to offend.

He picked at a bowl of casserole but tipped most of it down the sink and stared at the wobbling lumps of a mysterious meat bobbing in the thin layer of water attempting to force them down the drain. He watched the plughole clog with- beef, perhaps?- and the water start to pool behind it, breaking down the congealed gravy that had clumped on the bottom.

He watched if for half an hour, until he became aware of the fact he was standing in a puddle and then he turned off the tap and threw the bowl into the wall. He pushed with his hand, casting spell after spell, aware of what he was doing but unable to stop. He couldn’t force his hand down until he was standing in the splintered remains of his living room, his furniture destroyed, scraps of fabric drifting around the room before coming to a rest on the floor.

He looked at the remains of his home, the place he’d created for himself, an outward representation of his inner personality. It was torn up, a mess, damaged beyond what could be easily repaired. He looked around and started giggling, a pained dark noise that built to a laugh and culminated in him vomiting.

He was sitting in the rubble, still chuckling to himself, when a team of Aurors burst in, Picquery at the head, wand already sparking defensively.

“Graves?” Picquery says, stepping forward, clearly anxious. Anxious about him? Or about how weak he was making MACUSA?  “Graves, what happened?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Nothing happened. Nothing you need concern yourself with, at any rate.”

“Was there an attack? Did Grindelwald’s followers do this?” Picquery presses, kneeling to meet Graves’ eyes. He shakes his head and she frowns. “The Obscurus? There are myths of them reforming.”

He shakes his head again and she waves the other Aurors out and summons fire-whiskey and glasses. He swallows his in one and she refills his glass.

“Percival?” Seraphina murmurs, then. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am almost certain I’m not, but I will be,” he attempts to assure her. “I just needed to break something.”

“This isn’t something,” Seraphina says, “Percy, this is destroying everything Grindelwald touched.” _He touched you_ unspoken but clear.

“Don’t call me Percy.” It’s automatic, his frown genuine, and then the soothing mask he put on when she had approached is back in place, smooth and intact although he takes the fire-whiskey bottle and pours a double-shot. “I did not hurt myself or another person and I won’t. It was simply an expression of rage against the man who invaded my home. It’s over now, it’s finished. I will have the interior re-decorated and everything will be fine.”

Picquery doesn’t believe him. She can’t. They were at school together and she knew his family of old, had been friends with his sister when they were children. She won’t profess to know him well _now_ but she did then. And what happened would have broken anyone.

“I am going to contact your family, Percival,” Seraphina says. “You need to go home.”

“I _don’t want to_ ,” he snaps. “I don’t want to!”

“Why not?”

Graves’ eyes narrow. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

Picquery feels her fight drain through the soles of her feet, an exhausted resignation taking over. “You do, in fact. I am your boss and I need to ensure that you are safe to be in the field.”

“I resign,” Graves’ response is immediate. “I resign, effective immediately.”

Picquery nods. “I accept your application for indefinite leave and I will appoint an appropriate replacement until your return.”

Percival’s mouth twitches. “Very well.”

“Good. You can’t sleep here- you just can’t- so let’s return to MACUSA.”

“Going back to the President’s suite?” Graves giggles, his fourth fire-whiskey in ten minutes loosening his tongue. “What of the rumours?”

“Doubtless it will prove confirmation of several,” Picquery agrees. “But it will be worth it to know you are safe.”

“I was safe here,” Graves sighs but follows her. They Apparate to the entrance hall of MACUSA and walk toward the elevator. There’s still many employees scuttling about, despite the lateness of the hour and Picquery is impressed by how Graves straightens his walk, to appear sober.

Her rooms are aggressively opulent, gold and marble with ancient artefacts and rare paintings spread in a way that draws attention to the centre where a rare statute stands. It’s a stark difference to the casual wealth of the Graves’ and, without it being filled with diplomats discussing policy, it seems stagnant and strange.

Percival flops down onto the sofa, a strangely ungraceful movement and watches her through half-lidded eyes, as she fetches blankets and pillows and carries them through to the spare bedroom. He follows her in when she goes to make the bed and the second it’s complete he collapses onto it.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright over night?”

“No,” Percival responds with a wry smile. “But I will live.”

“Okay,” Picquery says. “I will leave you to sleep, then. Goodnight, Percival.”

“Goodnight, Seraphina. Thank you.”

 _He’s in greater pain then he thinks_ , Seraphina thinks, already penning a letter in her head. _Percival will need her. Despite what he's decided._


	2. Chapter 2- Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves has a plan. No one else thinks it's a good idea.  
> (Warning: vague contemplation of self-harm).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a vague contemplation of self-harm, so please don't read this if it could trigger something for you :)  
> I think Percival would mostly definitely have terrible survivor's guilt, and would internalize it.

_There’s blood welling from the remains of his palms, an unbroken burn that bursts into flames sporadically, splintering his thoughts, leaving him unable to bring the fractured remains of his mind together again._

_He knows he’s out there, somewhere, bringing terror and death behind him. A monster wearing his face. His face, his body, his name, his clothes. It used to make him nauseous, the fact those deeds would be attributed to him but now he’s numb. Nothing matters. No one’s coming._

_He thought someone would notice- Picquery, his boss and, he had thought, his friend. A member of his family, one of his cousins running about the MACUSA themselves. Even one of the junior Aurors who he oversaw day to day, or the damned impossible members of the Council who’s pompous opinions had started many arguments- someone. Anyone. But no one has, and no one will. He’s going to die from an infection, or starvation, or Grindelwald getting bored with trying to break him- trying? Succeeding- and just ending him._

_He’s going to die and atrocities will be committed in his name._

Graves jerks awake, but stifles the cry before it leaves his mouth. A lamp sputters into flame with a whisper and he swings his legs out of the bed, panting heavily and knuckling his eyes. Guilt unfurls deep within him and an impotent rage.

It occurs to him that maybe it isn’t the fact that he broke that’s the problem. Maybe he was put together wrong. That would mean all he needs to do is splinter again and he can try a second time. Be better. Do better. The only way to do _that_ is to leave.

He dresses with the speed and silence of many years’ practice. Leaving Picquery’s apartment is trickier as he doesn’t dare illuminate anything in case it wakes Seraphina up, and the furniture arrangement is unfamiliar. However, Auror training covers blind escapes and entries and he concentrates on techniques which were once second-nature, but which have grown rusty with disuse.

He begins planning a black-out drill in his head, but stops. It isn’t his job anymore, so it is in no way his problem. Let them figure it out themselves.

He opens the front door and blinks at the brightness of the hallway. There are no guards out and he frowns, because that’s not good policy, despite Grindelwald’s capture. Dammit. Not his issue. He knows where the trick tiles are, the ones that would alert anyone inside the suite to his presence and avoids them, which brings a crooked smile to his face. He calls the elevator and waits patiently, reassured that he's so far undetected.

He knows Picquery will panic when she finds him gone, but the numbness is setting in again and he can’t bring himself to care. A tiny part of him, the only part left that _feels_ , whispers that she deserves it and worse. He quashes it and steps into the lift, closing his eyes and letting the familiar rattle wash over him.

 The Grand Entrance of the Congress looks the same as it always does, day or night. There’s a receptionist at the main desk and a few scattered Aurors having coffee on the staircase, but they don’t look up at Graves’ approach and Percival feels a swell of triumph. Once he’s out, he can Apparate somewhere else- perhaps the family’s cabin, hidden in a wizarding neighbourhood near Aspen, perhaps onto a No-Maj boat heading for any destination at all.

He’s nearly there, down the last flight of steps and almost out of hearing range of the others when a hand grips his sleeve. “Mister Graves!”

He whirls around, reflexively shoving his wand into the submandibular and pressing his hand into their stomach. He can blow them apart from this position and he very nearly does, is so close to just snapping because the last time someone caught his arm… well, it didn’t end well.

As it is, he recognizes Goldstein’s terrified eyes and her trembling fingers and he steps back. Horror floods in at what he so very nearly did, blanking out most of Goldstein’s first, croaky, sentences. _I could have killed her. I could have killed her because she wanted to talk to me._

It strengthens his resolve to leave, to find a place he can pull himself apart. But the fact Goldstein is talking eventually catches his attention and he tunes back in, thinking he owes her that, at least.

“… and so happy to see you walking around, it’s good to have you back but I thought you were on leave? Picquery sent out a memo a few hours ago.”

“I was just talking to her about the terms of that, actually. It’s more of a retirement, in fact,” Graves lies, faux-cheerful. “It ran a bit long, I must admit, but I thought I’d best get on my way.”

“Oh…” Goldstein says. She looks unconvinced. “Only I was one of the Aurors at your apartment. You destroyed it. Weren’t you meant to spend the night in Picquery’s rooms? Where are you going?”

“No.” Graves’ false perkiness peels away with each of her words. “No, I never intended to spend the night in Picquery’s hospitality. I have no requirement to share my plans with you and even less desire.”

Goldstein’s face fell at the first sharp word, though she’s still clutching his coat. She doesn’t let go, even as Graves moves to finally exit the building. She pulls him back round to face her and she looks so worried, he lets her once more.

“We have orders to wake up Madam Picquery if you try to leave,” Goldstein explains. “Please go back up. I don’t want you to get in trouble but I will wake her.”

Graves presses his wand into her ribs without thinking about it, digging the sharp point of it into the space between the bones.

“If you try and alert anyone to my leaving, I will find out,” he hisses. The rational part of his brain screams at him to stop, that this is Tina Goldstein, a capable Auror and lovely girl. He remembered her from when she was a first-year in Ilvermorny when he was in his seventh and who had followed him around when she saw him doing wandless magic, begging him to teach her. He remembers that her eyes had watered when she was demoted but they never lost the hint of determination, or drive that had gotten her to Auror. The irrational part, that seems to have taken over and which grows stronger with every passing hour, whispers that the more scared she is, the less likely she is to tattle. “Shut your mouth and _go_ _back to work_.”

Goldstein swallows and releases him. She reaches into her pocket for her wand, despite it all, and Graves stares at her before tapping her temple, gently. She crumples and he drapes her gently onto a wide stair, fetching a blanket and tucking it around her. It’s a remorseful gesture, but he still exits the building, striding down the street for several blocks before ducking into an alley and disappearing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably introduce the mystery "her" in the next chapter... but I don't know. This went in a different direction to how I was intending it to go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduces my OC sister for Percival, Veronica, and deals with Picquery's guilt over not noticing her closest confident was a disguised madman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kinda just filler, if I'm honest, because I wrote half of it and then got stuck. So apologies for that.

Seraphina Picquery can’t decide if she’s more worried or furious.

Goldstein had woken her up, apologizing continuously and stumbling to explain through it, but quite quickly making it clear that Graves was gone. He’d knocked her out, too, as she’d been clutching her head and dizzy though she’d told Seraphina he hadn’t meant to.

The poor girl had been unconscious for an hour and by the time she had reached Picquery, Graves’ trail had gone cold.

She had scrawled a letter and pressed it into Goldstein’s hand before pushing her into a Floo-powder fire and beginning to pace, ignoring the girl’s return to MACUSA and to her duties. She had sent Aurors to every known haunt of Percival’s, even No-Maj places they had been scouting for potential dangers recently. There was still no word, even though hours had passed and Graves could be anywhere, doing anything.

And she meant anything- Picquery was shaken by Graves’ assault of Goldstein and was struggling to retain composure. She presses a hand to her forehead and takes a deep breath. There was, logically, very little she could do until he resurfaced. Protocol dictated that the Aurors should return to duties within eight hours, though the case would remain open and active, and time was working against them.

“Madam Picquery?”

“Veronica,” Picquery says, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. “Thank you for coming.”

Veronica Blishwick (née Graves) is still an imposing woman, tall with dark piercing eyes and a face as prone to smiling as her sibling’s. She steps out of the tall fireplace in Seraphina’s study and meets her old friend with her arms crossed. She embraces Seraphina warmly, however and smiles briefly at her.

“It is good to see you, though the circumstances are less than perfect,” Veronica says, a high-born member of society til death and she takes Picquery’s hand. “How are you?”

Seraphina smiles, then, because Veronica’s presence is as soothing as Percival had attempted to be. She had been a friend since they both started at Ilvermorny, sorted into the same house and separated from their families. They were acquaintances before that, first meeting at a party for the wizarding elite of New York as children. She is as familiar as Seraphina’s bedroom ceiling and as comforting as the heirloom cloak she had wrapped in protective spells and left in her closet.

She takes Veronica to the kitchen and makes tea, pretending small talk about Veronica’s children, the eldest son who had just started at Ilvermorny, the two daughters who had lived past infancy and the new baby, before they sit together on the sofa, Veronica holding Seraphina’s free hand in her own. Veronica sips at her tea and changes from an old school-friend turned mother and high-society wife to an Auror in an instant.

“Any word on Percival’s location?”

“Not yet.”

“I had Robert and Thaddeus check the family’s properties, he isn’t there. They are both staying in one overnight and checking the others in case he turns up.”

 Seraphina nods. “I have Aurors in all of the places that he goes to, but there’s nothing to report so far.”

“Do you know why he left? Has he argued with anyone recently? He used to run away when he was small.” Veronica smirks at the memory, before her face falls again. “I have no idea where he could have gone, Seraphina, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m the one who left him alone and went to bed. I should have known he wasn’t okay.”

“It’s not your fault either!” Veronica says emphatically. “We’ll find him. He’s just being selfish at the moment.”

“It’s not-”

“It isn’t his fault, he’s not himself,” Veronica’s sympathetic but no-nonsense and she smiles at Seraphina, attempting to cheer her up. “But he could have left a note, at least.”

“I suppose there’s nothing else for us to do tonight,” Seraphina says quietly. “You can sleep in the spare room, if you like.”

“I promise I will be here when you wake up,” Veronica promises. “And so will Percy, with any luck.”

Seraphina undresses, pulling on a nightgown and crawling beneath her heavy blankets. Her last thought, before she drops off, is of Percival Graves and his sad eyes.

She doesn’t dream, at all, which she considers a blessing when she wakes up the next morning. There was a low murmur of voices coming from the living room and she hurried through the doors to find Veronica and Tina Goldstein talking. Veronica was looking at Tina’s head, checking it all over.

“—And Percival did it? You’re sure?”          

“Yes, ma’am.”

Veronica’s mouth screwed up tightly and she shook her head, muttering to herself.  Seraphina stepped into the living room but stayed on her feet. They both looked around and smiled at her, but Goldstein shook her head subtly and Veronica looked tired and her cheeriness felt forced. Seraphina didn’t ask the obvious question for that reason instead opting for a nicer one.

“Tea?”

“Yes, please,” Veronica pulled Goldstein back onto the sofa when she made to stand up and help, “three cups, if you would.”

“Madam President?”

“You’re welcome to stay, we’ll need someone to head this investigation,” Seraphina waves her hand and something in the kitchenette rattles. “I’ve decided to treat this as a kidnapping. The case is still active and open and top priority.”

Both women seemed to agree with that preposition, and Goldstein was struggling to contain her joy at finally heading a case. She drank her tea very quickly, coughing when she burnt her tongue and left just as fast with a note from Picquery placing her firmly in charge of the investigation.

Her departure left Veronica and Seraphina staring at each other. Veronica stirred her tea with the tip of her wand and then stood and wrapped Seraphina in a hug.

“I heard you, last night. It isn’t your fault, it isn’t. You didn’t notice but neither did we. He was pretending to be my little brother and I didn’t notice either.”

“I saw him every day. We had coffee and lunches. The first few times, he seemed so distant but I thought he was just tired or grumpy-” Picquery was babbling and she hated it. She was strong. She didn’t cry on old friends’ shoulders, she’d lead the most powerful nation in the world. She was in control.

“I know, it’s okay. No one blames you.” Veronica released her and patted her shoulder. “Let’s go search ourselves. I used to find Percy hiding in the bushes when he was smaller and I’m sure I’ll find him now. Find him and _educate_ him on what an idiot he’s been, the past day. Alright?”

“Agreed,” Seraphina says, fetching her wand and preparing to Apparate. Veronica smiled and then disappeared. Picquery followed her, feeling for the first time, since Goldstein’s panicked face had loomed over her bed, a glimmer of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veronica's eight years older than Percival, an ex-Auror who gave it up when she was injured, because her son had screamed and screamed when she'd been hurt.   
> (I headcanon another, younger, brother: Thaddeus. He's the only one who had no desire to work in the Ministry and so he's a Healer at a wizarding hospital and irritates Percival to no end, just for fun).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically just what Percy was doing while everyone was worrying about him.  
> Vague mention of themes relating to self-harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Percy's pretty depressed and he's not self-harming but he isn't stopping harm from coming to him so it may be triggering. Please don't read this if it could cause you pain yourself :/

There’s a time to flee the state in order to tear yourself in two without bringing anything or packing anything. That time is not the middle of winter, especially not to a small cabin in Aspen. Graves learns that the particularly hard way.

He shudders inside his great coat; his grandfather’s cabin, which was magically warmed, had had lights on when he had arrived. Incredibly grateful he’d decided to check it out prior to going inside, he had hidden in a cabin near his grandfather’s but with a clear line of sight and waited for the lights to dim and the people inside to leave. They hadn’t, and so he was inside a wizard’s oddly unenchanted home, wrapped up in a stranger’s blanket.

The two areas- the wizarding ‘town’ and the No-Maj’s, were not what most would consider “neighbourhoods”. They were simply groups of cabins, dotted throughout the wood, generally within sight of at least one other building but otherwise totally isolated. Almost all at this early time, before a heavy enough snowfall for skiing but after hunting became unwise, were abandoned.

He didn’t dare use magic or light a fire in case it was spotted, a new lightsource in an otherwise empty wood. So he’d just stuffed some bread into his mouth before curling up in a bed, wishing his grandfather hadn’t built his home so close to a No-Maj neighbourhood, or to a wizarding one, at that. He’d fallen asleep quite easily, but had woken in the early hours in a panic.

The complete darkness and the small size of the room he was in had, for five minutes, convinced him that he was back in his cell and so he had “escaped” by leaping through the open window. He landed awkwardly on his ankle and he fell onto his knees in the snow.

Now, however, as he came to realize as his feet and lower limbs became numb, there was no way he could stand up unaided and Apparating from a kneel was a prime way to splinch yourself.

“Good job, Percival,” he mutters, “this is exactly why you’re such a prime target.”

Cursing his own stupidity, he waved his hand and a nearby branch wafted over to him. He paused, because he knew his family’s cabin had alerts for magic use within a set radius. Nothing happened and so he pushed the end of the stick deeper into the snow.

Dragging himself onto his feet took longer than he expected and his hands were tinged blue by the time he was standing again. Unable to fully stabilize himself without aid, he was forced to place more branches at roughly arm’s length using just his hand and then fall forwards and catch himself on that.

It was hard, menial and exhausting. He managed to make it inside but he was soaked and shivering violently and gave up just inside the doorway, sitting on the bare wood. He gradually began to thaw and when he did blood began to return to his extremities. It was an insistent pain, burning through his body.

 _I deserve this_. It was the only thought in his head, a statement that became a mantra and grew, twisting his stomach and making him gag. _I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this. You didn’t fight hard enough, you didn’t do what you should have done, you failed. You failed. You failed._

Even when his fingers had returned to their normal colour and the burn had eased, he still heard it inside his head and he didn’t move. His clothes clung to him, but he made no effort to remove anything.

The more uncomfortable he got, the easier it was to shut out the voice. When it had finally quietened down, he stood up, wobbling on one foot. Hopping was humiliating, even with no one to see it. He can’t even make it to the bed, so he summons a chair to him and sits heavily.

He could heal his ankle himself. It wouldn’t be too difficult; Auror training in broken bones and cuts was mandatory and he had taken an optional course on it in Ilvermorny. He rationalizes not doing it by assuming he’s too tired to do it properly and wondering if he’d even set it right.

He sleeps in the chair but only for an hour at a time, waking up bewildered and ready to defend himself. He’d broken a chest of drawers when a squirrel, creeping through the open window, had startled him and he had almost screamed because a light had flickered on in the distance, in the general direction of his grandfather’s holiday home.

No one had approached the cabin he was in, however, and so he slumped back on his chair. He was still encased in a wet greatcoat and even his inner layers, pressed against his body warmth, were damp.

He was shivering again, though he fought to control it. Eventually he pushed himself up the stairs and pulled his coat off, pulling blankets and sheets around himself and shaking into the pillows. He didn’t want to feel comforted, or even warm, he just wanted to stop himself showing the effects of the cold and he was highly frustrated that he couldn’t by himself. It was another cruel reminder that he wasn’t as strong, in his own opinion, as he had once thought, that Grindelwald was not a one-off mistake.

Losing consciousness was easy and he barely fought it, choosing to slip into a welcome darkness and not face himself.

The window was still open and in the late afternoon, a soft breeze dragged snowflakes through it and dusted Graves with them. He shook harder and coughed in his sleep, weakly at first and then with a violence that tears him back into wakefulness.

While the coughing gradually fades, leaving his throat raw and his lungs aching, he sits up and pushes the window closed with his open palm. He is physically and emotionally tired now, his magic weakened to near-powerless.

A creeping doubt is setting in, that this plan was not ideal. He still believes he deserves this, that he let Grindelwald invade MACUSA, a feeling that grows in strength the more he thinks about it. But perhaps stranding himself in the snow was a bad idea.

He’s ill, that much is obvious even without a healer’s confirmation and he fears pneumonia with the conviction of one who’d lived through the Spanish flu outbreak. He can’t fix himself and he can’t contact anyone either, not without inviting MACUSA back into this.

He’s still reluctant to return, even if he could, and it’s almost enough to make him smile. He had been dying to return when he was in Grindelwald’s clutches and now he was literally dying to stay away.

He lay his head back down on his pillow and used the last of his reserve magic to warm his bed and clothing, watching the snow evaporate from the top blankets. This isn’t comfort, it’s survival and he can’t die yet. Grindelwald must die first.

He would die first.

Percival’s eyes drifted closed once more, fingers clenching and unclenching on the sheets before slowly relaxing and falling to the mattress.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find Percival. He's not in good shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another filler chapter, I'm afraid.  
> He's going to get yelled at, when he's better.

Every Auror in MACUSA is exhausted by the end of 48 hours.

Picquery’s worked them hard, sending them to every known location Graves has ever set foot in, including a No-Maj library and the Horned Serpent dorms at Ilvermorny. They’ve sent owls to the Ministry of Magic in the UK and to the other wizarding organizations Percival’s likely to have fled to. His family, most all Aurors, have been trickling in and out of Picquery’s office, checking their private properties and contacting distant relatives and old friends to see if he’d sought sanctuary with anyone.

Tina’s more exhausted than most, running the operations, collecting intel and taking reports of it all to Picquery every hour. Often there’s one or more of the Graves’ in there, dark, tall and confident, who fix her with the intense, focussed stare that’s turned out to be a family trait and they make her trip over her words and fumble handing over papers every time. Her face is so flushed by the end, she’s sure Picquery will fire her once the emergency is over.

She’s sitting slumped in her office, sipping at her third coffee in six hours, when Queenie comes in, carrying several sandwiches. She hands one to her sister and sits in the chair beside the desk.

“Newt sent an owl,” she says with a smile. “He’s hoping the search is going well, but he’s willing to Portkey in if we need him.”

“We might, at this rate,” Tina moans, burying her head in her hands. “Where could he have gone?”

“Newt?” Queenie smiles, but it fades quickly at Tina’s unimpressed look. “You’ll find Graves, Tina. He’s probably quite close.”

Tina looks up at that, eyes narrowing. “Has anyone checked with the neighbours?”

Queenie shrugs, taking a delicate bite of a cheese sandwich. “I think they interviewed all the ones at home?”

“What about the ones who weren’t at home? If he knows the area well, empty houses or apartments would be a great place to lay low and if he needs to destroy things, well, there’d be no one around to worry about.”

Queenie’s eyes widen and she puts her food down, standing up. “I’ll contact Newt, ask him to check the Graves’ property in Ireland.”

“I’ll send people to his apartment in New York and to the family manor, but we should go check out the cabins ourselves.” Tina’s looking determined but also excited. “There’s no point having a bunch of Aurors traipsing around that close to No-Maj homes.”

Queenie nods and goes to inspect the photo of the Graves’ land, so she can familiarize herself with it enough to Apparate there alone. She goes first, and Tina, once she’s done issuing orders, follows.

The Graves’ cabin is as unassuming in looks as all the others, but there’s a hum of magic coming from it, even from several metres away. Tina ignores it; it’s been rigged to alert Picquery if anyone enters. She can see a few others, but they’re all clearly wizards’ cabins.

Queenie’s listening, head cocked to one side and she hushes Tina. Tina chooses to walk down the path, towards the edges of the forest. She’s looking around for footprints when Queenie grabs her arm, hard.

“I got something. It’s weak, though.  If it’s Percival, he’s in bad shape.” She drags Tina toward a cabin that looks towards the Graves’. The door’s closed but unlocked and Tina steps in, clutching her wand like a lifeline. Queenie follows her and while Tina checks the first floor, Queenie goes up the stairs.

“Tina, come up here now, please!” Queenie’s not quite yelling but there’s urgency in her tone and Tina rushes up the stairs as quickly as she can.

Percival Graves is in a bed, rolled in several blankets. His hair’s damp with sweat and sticking to his skin, strands looking greasy and somehow longer. His face is pale, greenish and drawn and his eyes are closed. Tina places a hand on his forehead and recoils from the heat emanating from it.

“That’s not good,” Tina’s heart’s in her throat. “If he’s this sick, he can’t be moved.”

Queenie nods, hands covering her mouth. Despite all the good magic can do, pneumonia and sicknesses can still be deadly if left untreated, and Graves is deathly ill.

“Keep an eye on him,” Tina murmurs. “I’m going to get Picquery and healers.”

Picquery abandons her board meeting with little more than a dismissal for the other members but stops Tina from going to the Healer’s wing, instead calling a man from her inner office to join them and Apparating them there immediately.

They rush upstairs and Queenie, who’s been sponging at Graves’ forehead with a charmed rag, backs out quickly to give them space.

Percival coughs, then, mumbles something none of them catch and then his eyes blink blearily open and he stares at them, frowns and waves a hand like he’s trying to shove them away before drifting back into unconsciousness.

“Percy,” Picquery murmurs, then she runs a hand through thick strands of black hair. “You foolish, foolish man.”

The Healer coughs, impatiently, and she steps back, allowing him to brush past and start applying a tincture to his chest, turning to Tina and instructing her to stop the Aurors’ search.

“There isn’t enough room here for more than the four of us, so no one is to come. Understood? Send your sister back up, we may need help if he wakes up enough to try and fight us.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Tina goes back to MACUSA and closes down the investigation. She’s immediately swamped by a swarm of angry relatives, all of whom are furious they weren’t notified first. She manages to calm most of them by insisting that Picquery’s orders were legitimate and eventually they leave.

One woman remains, however and Tina recognizes her as Percival’s elder sister.

“Where is my brother?”

“I’m not allowed to say,” Tina says quietly. “It’s a small location.”

“Picquery’s orders are to keep even his immediate family away?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tina swallows, hard. “There’s just Picquery and a Healer there and there’s not even room enough for him to work properly.”

Veronica’s eyes glitter. “He needs a Healer? When will he be moved?”

“As soon as he is capable of it.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Veronica says and she sweeps out.

Tina breathes a sigh of relief and Apparates back to the cabin, where she sees Picquery and the Healer holding down a delirious Graves who’s ranting incoherently and struggling. Tina rushes to help, takes over his arms from the Healer who immediately starts feeding an odd mix of mushed up herbs.

Tina catches the name Grindelwald between his swallows and then he falls back asleep. Picquery lets go of his legs and the Healer sighs.

“He should sleep for a while now and we can move him in the morning, if the tincture continues to work. I should write an owl to the family.”

“Thank you, Thaddeus,” Picquery says and the Healer nods. He leaves, and Queenie enters, with coffee in her arms and firewood bobbing behind her.

They light the fire and drink copious amounts of coffee, handing a cup to the Healer as he re-enters. Percival wakes up several times but his delirium is less each time, though he doesn’t recognize them yet, Queenie tells them.

Eventually, Tina falls asleep, with her head resting on Queenie’s shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival wakes up in the hospital and starts to believe he will survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took to post! I sprained my wrist so typing was a bit difficult.   
> Hopefully it's almost worth the wait.

Percival wakes up to a hand combing through his hair.

He lies still and keeps his eyes closed, because it’s incredibly comforting and he knows waking means it’ll stop, even if only because he’ll feel like he needs to pull away. He relaxes into the pillows and listens to the person’s quiet breathing and the occasional flipping of a page.

He’s nearly asleep again when the fingers stop moving, then leave his hair and he bites back a whine, not tired enough to lose that much control. He opens his eyes to see Seraphina Picquery stretching and yawning, clearly preparing to leave the room.

She turns at his quiet complaint and her smile’s near blinding.

“Graves,” she says and her voice sounds strangely uneven, “you’re awake.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “I am.” He struggles to sit up and frowns when his chest constricts painfully, sinking back into the mattress.

She sits again, holds his hand. “How do you feel?”

“A bit tired, quite sore. My chest’s burning. Otherwise, I’m alright.” He attempts a smile but his lips feel stiff and from Seraphina’s minute changes of expression, it isn’t quite working, so he just clumsily pats her hand.

“You’re lucky,” she says, quietly. “You nearly died. If the Goldsteins hadn’t thought to check the neighbour’s homes, you’d have been killed by hypothermic pneumonia.”

Graves swallows, because he hadn’t meant to put himself in that much danger, he really hadn’t. Picquery’s dismay is obvious and he’s always loathed disappointing people. He turns his head away and stares at the portrait on the wall who regards him with disdain.

Seraphina sighs and stands up again. “I’ll fetch you a Healer to put a balm on your chest.”

Percival wants her to stay, but the words stick in his throat and he can’t force them out. He nods, instead and watches her walk out the door. Mercifully, she leaves it open and he can see people going up and down the hallway outside. Occasionally one will peer at him, but for the most part they simply go about their duties.

A female Healer comes in and rubs something onto him that stinks terribly and that burns upon application but which starts to feel soothing within minutes. His breathing becomes easier and he coughs for the first time, which the Healer assures him is normal and is simply mucus being shifted.

They leave him several books, all of them works of fiction which bore him, usually, but which he picks up again and again, despite never reading more than twelve pages at a time. The stories are all some variation of a romance, another reason he hates fiction, but the teeth-rotting sweetness of it all is a nice distraction from the very real threat looming over him.

They’re all going to be furious. His family will not forgive him easily, Picquery is disappointed and hurt and the Aurors will have lost all respect for him after that little stunt. He wants to bury his head in a pillow and scream, but that’s not possible, not here.

He sits up properly and feels his chest constrict. He’s starting to feel hungry and a bit chilled, despite the blankets heaped over him. There’s a pleasant smell in the air, a result of a charm that ensures the… messier… parts of hospital life don’t become too obvious. But beneath is a more savoury scent and it makes Graves’ mouth water.

Unsure when the nurses were due back, he carefully eased his legs out from underneath the blankets, pressing them onto the floor. They seemed to be free of pins and needles and so he straightened first one and then the other, standing and wobbling for a few seconds, until he thought he could try taking a step.

He was doing well, until his knee locked up, causing him to overbalance and land squarely on his face. He groaned aloud, but his arms had seized as well, his muscles trembling and jumping beneath his skin.

He swore, several times, but was forced to lie on the tiles with a bit of blood trickling from his nose and pooling at his forehead. It was uncomfortable and cold and most of all mortifying and he closed his eyes, wishing he had had the foresight to ask Picquery for a snack.

He didn’t have a watch, so his time-keeping was based predominantly on his rising levels of boredom. He couldn’t have been down there long, the nurses came around with an almost irritating frequency, popping in and asking how he was feeling and he had fallen and been picked up between their visits.

He would almost have preferred the duty nurse’s cheerful, caring, detachment to who actually pulled him back to his feet, because although he respected and cared for Tina Goldstein, her careful treatment of him made him want to scream at her that he wasn’t a baby. He knew it wasn’t intended to cause offence, that she really didn’t know how to treat a superior in his position- really, did anybody?- but it still made his teeth grind together audibly.

“Mr Graves?” Tina asks, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says, voice heavy with sarcasm, despite his best intentions, “I enjoy lying on the floor. It’s good for the back, you see. And you can have too much blood, it’s very important to let some out to ensure a pallid complexion.”

Tina’s lips go thin and her eyes show hurt but she wraps his arm around her shoulders and they walk slowly back to the bed. He falls into it, quite literally, though Tina slows it considerably.

“Anything you need, sir? I thought I would go to the canteen to meet up with Queenie, Newt and J- and… and the other Aurors.”

“A coffee and a sandwich wouldn’t go amiss.” As an olive branch, he adds, “you’re in charge until I return to work, I hear? I hope it goes well for you.”

Tina’s smile makes Graves’ own mouth twitch upwards, the most he’s managed since he left Ilvermorny. She leaves to fetch his food, promising to bring him back copies of the reports for the week as well and returns promptly with them and ‘best wishes’ from the Department.

He’s just settling himself back into the pillows, coffee cooling on the bedside table and his mouth full of chicken salad and rye bread, cracking open the last report and beginning to read it when Picquery re-enters.

Her dark eyes narrow and then his sandwich and coffee are on the other side of the room and the reports are in her hands.

“No outside food,” she’s using her _official_ voice, her ‘do as I say Percival or you’ll regret it’ voice, which normally makes him want to refuse her, but she’s got a glint in her eye that he recognizes and associates only with danger and so he decides not to say anything.

He keeps that internal promise for five seconds until she waves the papers at him and tells him, in a sugar-sweet voice, that he’s not to try and work for _at least_ a month. 

“You can’t do that,” he objects, despite his best judgement, folding his arms and bringing his coffee to him, gulping down half of it, despite the regrettably low temperature it’s reached already.

“You’re right,” Picquery agrees, taking the coffee again. “You need at least two to be fully recovered. Don’t worry, I’ll ensure that no one bothers you with pesky things like these again. Have a good rest, I’m sure your sister’s coming this afternoon.”

Percival just blinks at her, mouth slack.

“I’ll drop by tomorrow,” Picquery adds, tone slightly softer, “I hope you feel better soon. Oh, and look, here comes your lunch.”

It’s typical hospital fare, bland and soft to suit the needs of the ill. He desperately prefers his sandwich but if this is the least of his punishments, he’ll bear it without complaint.

It’s the beginning of redemption, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to add Theseus Scamander to this, coz I like Theseus Scamander.   
> Or, I assume I will.

Percival Graves is impossibly bored.

He’s never been anywhere half as dull as this, he’s sure. He’s been in council meetings that were more stimulating and he consistently manages to avoid those. He tosses in his bed and then raises himself onto his elbows- whatever was in that balm, it _worked_. He wants more- and checks the clock.

1.23pm.

He’s been awake for less than two hours and he’s already feeling like he needs to leave. Right now. Immediately. He’s already been told his earliest possible release date is eight days from now and he’s flipped through the novels on the bedside table the same way he does reports, gleaning information from them. He knows the plots and the main characters and he doesn’t want to know more.

He’s almost looking forward to Veronica’s visit. She’s bound to be furious at him. She’ll yell and then she’ll give him something _to do_.

He’s expecting her to be angry and she is. He can tell from her body language as she enters and then she puts a bouquet of flowers on his bedside table before she sits in the chair beside the bed and stares at him.

It’s unnerving, because he was sure she would simply yell at him as she had when he’d ‘run-away’ as a child, but she doesn’t. She’s radiating a cold fury that doesn’t match her normal hot temper. He can’t meet her eyes, but she won’t look away. Percival twists the blankets around his fingers and swallows.

They sit like that for what feels like hours, but in reality is barely ten minutes. He raises his head, lowers it before deciding he’s an adult and he can start the conversation.

“Veron-” he starts, before he starts coughing. Not mildly like he had before, but huge hacking things that steal his breath and end with him gasping and wheezing.

Veronica puts a water glass to his lips and he gulps it down, before trying to continue his sentence. “Veronica- Ronnie, I didn’t mean…”

“Save it, Percival.”

He closes his mouth and frowns. But Veronica’s got a lot of pent-up worry and frustration to get through and now he’s opened the floodgates, she’s beginning to raise her voice to him.

“Percy, you were never a selfish kid, so what happened? How could you think that that was a clever idea? What, you’re hurting and so the best thing to do is just to take yourself away? We lost you before. We got told you were probably dead and for a _month_ we had to sit and wait for official news from MACUSA.”

Percival’s mouth goes dry. He hadn’t thought about that; his family wouldn’t have been allowed to join the investigation and MACUSA wouldn’t have released any leads to them to give them a place to start in any case.

“- so I told our brother he had to write a _eulogy_ , Percival.” Veronica narrows her eyes at him and then flicks him. Hard. On the tip of his nose. “Were you even paying attention, _Percy_?”

“I was. I…” he paused, took a deep breath. “I know that what I did was a stupid thing to do.”

Veronica looked taken aback briefly, but then her face resumes its stony look and she shrugs. “You’re going to need to do better than that, Pebble.”

Percival grits his teeth at the nickname- it’s worse even than _Percy_ \- and looks away.

“Pebble? You aren’t doing what you are supposed to.”

“Veronica, I don’t know _what_ I’m supposed to do.”

“Apologize? Or if that’s too _difficult_ how about you try not fleeing from your problems? You could have _died_. You’re not as alone as you think you are.”

“None of them noticed I wasn’t myself,” Percival says, with surprising bitterness. He hadn’t realized he was so angry but now he’s said it, he can’t not feel it. “Not one of them. I thought I had friends, but I don’t. I can’t do, not if they don’t know me well enough to differentiate between me and a _murderous psychopath_.”

“Seraphina is distraught about that, by the way. She was crying when she called me. Theseus Scamander floo-ed in, to help look for you and to hit Grindelwald. He had to be restrained by four Aurors. Went back to London but he insisted he’d be back before you left the hospital. That Goldstein girl, the Senior Aurors, the other Directors and even Abernathy... they’re all devastated. No one dreamed of this.”

Percival, who was grinning at the mention of the elder Scamander and his particular brand of overprotectiveness (even towards a man his own age) felt his smile drop. “Yeah, I know. It’s no one’s fault.”

“It is. It’s Grindelwald’s. And possibly yours.”

Percy turns his head sharply to met her eyes. “ _What_?”

“You are a very introverted person, Pebble. It’s not your fault at all, but perhaps you should learn from this? Instead of fleeing from the people trying to help you, why don’t you try and let us coddle you. Just for a few weeks.”

“Coddling is bad for moral fibre,” Percival says automatically, his grandfather’s words ingrained deeply. “I’m fine, Veronica, really.”

She gives him an unimpressed look, then ruffles his hair, brushing too long strands into his eyes. “I don’t think you’ll have a choice. I’m willing to bet my daughters’ dowries that Picquery and the elder Scamander will between them manage to keep you in line. Seraphina’s determined to make it up to you and Theseus seems a very… passionate man.”

“That is a polite way of saying it,” Percival agrees. Theseus is an odd, odd, person. Almost as strange as his brother, Newt, is meant to be. The nurses had been filling him in, but he suspects they are more interested in the possibility of Porpentina and Newt starting a relationship then in the actual details of Newt’s character. And Seraphina, when determined, is willing to do _anything_ (legal) to achieve her goals.

“Goodnight, little brother.” Veronica stands and tucks the blankets around his shoulders. “I have to get back to my husband, he’s struggling with the baby and the girls. They’re very worried about you.”

“Tell them Uncle Percy has bought their Christmas gifts already,” Percival says. “And then write me a owl to tell me what they actually want.”

“As you wish. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“I will endeavour not to.”

Veronica kisses his cheek, but pinches his ear as well. “This isn’t over,” she warns. “When you’re well again, you’ll have a lot to answer for.”

“They didn’t notice. You didn’t notice.”

“And we are all suffering for it. Not as much as you perhaps, but that particular guilt trip won’t work on me.”

Percival feels a corner of his mouth rise. “Who will it work on?”

Veronica laughs. “Everyone else. Now, go to sleep.”

Percy pulls his blankets up to his chin and begins plotting to return to his office and take his reports back. Veronica must see it on his face, because she, on a final note, before leaving leans back in.

“Oh, and just by the way. Eight different people have alarmed wards on this door. If you put one foot through it, you will be stupefied, picked up and put in to a secure ward. If you’re really unlucky, one of the nurses threatened to tie you to your bed.”

Percival groans and his sister’s self-righteous face follows him into yet another nap.   


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theseus arrives, and while Percy's glad, Seraphina wishes she could boot him out of the country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picquery is a strong woman, and I respect her.   
> So does Theseus. He just finds her highly suspicious, not least because Percy gets a weird look when he talks about her. Theseus suspects something's... distracting him... He finds it amusing.   
> He's going to meddle.   
> He can't not.  
> Percy will forgive him eventually.

Picquery is used to having disgraced people in her office.

She’s given the lecture on maintaining standards, on retaining focus and on being well-behaved many a time.

She’s less used to having someone’s ire directed at her.

Theseus Scamander, a taller, broader, darker version of Newt is scowling at her. He’s just back from finishing his cases or handing them off to another and Picquery realizes with a sinking feeling that that means that she’ll have to put up with the British man for a while. Perhaps a month or more.

Theseus is tapping his foot and frowning at her. After his ridiculous attempt to “punch the smirk off that bastard’s smug face” as he had explained it, she feels she should have the higher ground in terms of ‘who’s better at their job’ but Theseus’ unimpressed hmm-ing has her doubtful that he agrees.

“Madame President?” Theseus says, with barely hidden disdain. “Do I have permission for an extended visit to the United States or not?”

“Yes,” Picquery eventually acquiesces. She’s not happy. At all. Theseus Scamander has been insufferable since she met him as a teenager, and he hasn’t improved with age. She honestly doesn’t know what Percival sees in that man.

Theseus gives her a smug smile and turns to leave, before spinning back.

“I’m sorry.” He says, apparently genuine. “It must have been gut-wrenching to find out what happened and to lose so many men.”

He walks out then, moving with a loping speed towards the hospital wing. Picquery’s still taken aback. He might not be as bad as I remember, she muses.

Turns out, he’s worse.

Within a day, he’s scared off most of the nurses, brought in two doctors from St. Mungo’s to “double check” her Healers’ diagnosis, and scared the Aurors into reporting to him so he can decide what Percy’s going to hear, instead of her.

He seems to be telling Percy most everything, as he seems suspiciously well-informed about several cases she wants him nowhere near, until he’s well again, though he’s clearly feeling better and is starting to walk around the hospital wing’s small garden, with Healers in attendance. Theseus is out of the room, mercifully, apparently chasing down one of Newt’s creatures, before anyone at MACUSA was alerted.

Percy tells her this, with a fond smile on his face, and it makes her gut shift uncomfortably.   _There’s no reason to be jealous_ , she tells herself but it hardly matters. Percy’s gone quiet and she notices- a beat too late- that he’s trying to reach for something; a half-empty water glass.

“I’ll get it,” she says automatically, and picks it up. She hands him the drink and he takes a few thirsty gulps.

“Percy, I got him!” comes an exuberant shout from the hallway and a brief look of dismay crosses her face. Percy shoots her a hurt look before turning his attention to Theseus.

She stays as long as she can bare, but has to flee the room when they start talking about the war.

She’d begged Percy to stay home, had promised him everything- a promotion, a pay raise, her job, even- if he’d not get involved in that stupid No-Maj struggle. He’d looked her in the eyes and told her that Theseus was going, and he wasn’t going to leave his best friend to struggle through alone.

That had hurt.

The three years he spent on the front line were hell for him, she knew from the terse letters she received every six weeks and clung to like a lifeline. But they’d been horrendous for her too. She had missed Percy.

She sucks in a deep breath, alone in her office though she is, to keep tears at bay. She’s the President and she doesn’t give a _shit_ that Percival Graves prefers Theseus Scamander’s company to hers. Why should she care? She doesn’t care.

“Madame President?” Scamander seems to have a bad habit of turning up when he’s not wanted, she thinks, before she realizes it’s the quieter one, Newt, with Tina Goldstein. She waves them both in and schools her face into an expression of calm.

“Can I help you?” she says, and is quickly dragged into a smuggling situation. She works until midnight and then she stumbles back to her office. She’s unused to field work, as the President rarely goes out with her Aurors.

She opens her door and finds a letter on her desk.

She picks it up, not recognizing the untidy scrawl on it, and starts to read.

 _Dear President_ , it begins, respectfully enough. Then it devolves into a list of complaints and inefficiency issues.

Picquery considers throwing it into the fire. Then recognizes the use of it and forwards it to Human Resources before crawling into her back room and collapsing into the narrow bed.

The next morning, following her new routine, she does her ablutions and dresses before adjusting her headscarf and moving to the hospital wing.

She’s not shocked to see a cot pressed against the hospital wall, with Theseus’ coat drooped over it as a blanket. She’s certainly not shocked to see Percy still asleep.

She is a bit surprised to see that the breakfast that’s delivered to him is not the hospital’s usual bland porridge but a full breakfast of eggs and toast with porridge in a small bowl on the side, spiralled with honey and jam. The nurse catches her looking and shrugs slightly.

“It was Mr. Scamander, Madame. He insisted we feed Director Graves “real food” and everyone else, for that matter, or he was going to provide it for all the patients. We didn’t want to risk infection from an outside food source, so we’ve had to spend extra time providing for them all. I don’t know where the money’s going to come from, Madame, we don’t have the budget for it.”

“I’m well aware, Miss Heath,” Picquery says, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I’ll speak to Mr. Scamander. At the very least, he’s only temporary.”

“I heard that,” Theseus says, coming around the door. “Hmm. This looks much better. Thank you, Miss Heath.”

The nurse gives him a put-upon look, turns to roll her eyes at Picquery and stalks out with her breakfast trolley. Theseus hums with satisfaction and steals one of Percy’s soldiers, chewing it while he regards his friend with a soft smile and a hint of exasperation.

“Good morning, Mr. Scamander,” Picquery says, attempting to be civil.

“Good morning.” He responds, “did you get my letter.”

“I did.”

“Ah. Good. Percy didn’t want me to send it. I thought it was best to.”

“That’s good?” she hazards. She wonders why he’s telling her. It was just a list of interdepartmental problems, wasn’t it?

He gives her a strange look, then his face falls. “You didn’t read the whole thing, did you.”

She bristles. “I sent it on to the Director of Human Resources. She will put everything in place to address the issues you raised.”

Theseus looks a mix of exasperated and amused. “I’d retrieve that if I were you. And read the section under President: Madame.”

Full of foreboding, and pausing briefly only to give Percy’s hand a quick squeeze, she rushes up the stairs wondering what Theseus could possibly have to say about her.

The letter is still on Matilda Furworth’s desk and she retrieves it with ease, picking it up and flicking through it till she finds her entry.

_Needs to spend more time out of office to get a feeling for her employees’ day to day work._

_Needs to work on international co-operation._ She snorts, eyebrows raised. Damn Theseus.

_Could use more training in Legilimency so she can tell when her employees are mass-murders._

_And so she can finally stop being a blind fool and work out why Percival Graves goes all gooey-eyed at her._

Ohhhh. Oh. Oh.

She removes that part and replaces it, before rushing to her office and burying herself in paperwork.

_Oh._

 

 


End file.
